


Dreamer's Ball

by blackbentley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fanart, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24393754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbentley/pseuds/blackbentley
Summary: Set after the falling out in St James Park in 1862. Aziraphale has a bad day and goes looking for some comfort <3Also, there's a picture!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48





	Dreamer's Ball

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aziraphaliac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziraphaliac/gifts).



> Title is, once again, a Queen song.

**Mayfair, London - 1 December 1900**

Aziraphale has had A Day. And before the Day, he had A Night. Celestial beings don't feel lonely, but he does. Celestial beings don't get tired, but he is.

He knows what he needs, but he can't ask for it. Doesn't know if he can ever have it again. Sharp fragments of their last conversation clatter around in his head. It's been almost 40 years but every word still stings.

 _I need a favour ... Out of the question .... I'm not bringing you a suicide pill ... I have lots of other people to_ fraternise _with, angel ... I don't need you._

And that feeling isn't mutual at all.

So here he is, standing in front of a half-open bedroom door in Mayfair instead of back at the bookshop where he belongs. Well, where he's supposed to be. It's almost completely dark, but he can make out the back of Crowley's head with its shock of red hair. By breathing deeply he can just, just catch the faintest trace of his scent without going any further. Woodsmoke, leather, and something else. Something that isn't anything else, it's just Crowley.

And it's enough. It needs to be enough.

But it's not.

Crowley stirs and rolls over. Aziraphale backs into the hall and curses himself silently. He leans his forehead against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut.

_Leave. Leave now and this never happened._

It's _not enough_. He always knew it wouldn’t be enough.

He pushes the door open and crosses the threshold. He takes a breath, and then a step; a breath, and a step; and he's at the side of the bed.

He brushes his fingers over the covers, glances down at Crowley ... and goes rigid. One slitted yellow eye is looking at him, not quite in focus, but definitely looking at him.

Without a sound, Crowley folds the cover back. He snaps his fingers, clothes disappear and are replaced by a woven tartan nightshirt. His eye is already closed again by the time Aziraphale lies down, balanced on the very edge of the bed. Crowley reaches one arm out, wraps it round Aziraphale's waist and pulls him back until their bodies are pressed together, hips and knees tucking in perfectly.

Aziraphale can feel himself melting into the mattress, and into Crowley's embrace. He can feel breath on the back of his neck, and warmth seeping into his bones. His eyelids grow heavy. He sleeps, wrapped in a demon's arms, and it's enough. Enough for now.

***

Crowley blinks in the watery sunlight poking through the shutters. He knows he dreamed, but it's gone. He dreamed, and it was warm and soft and safe, but it's gone. It could have been 5 minutes ago, or 10 years. He's stopped keeping track of the time.

He stretches, and finds cooling heat in the mattress. He sits bolt upright and scans the room, serpentine tongue flicking. Nothing. The dream has left him.

But something is certainly out of place. He can feel it. No, he can smell it. It smells of spring rain and tea leaves and something unidentifiable but achingly familiar. He sinks back into the bed, feeling strangely bereft.

_Might as well go back to sleep for another decade or two. Who would notice anyway?_

He turns on his side, puts a hand under the pillow, and is startled to find there's something there. A soft bundle that appears to be the source of the lingering scent in the room. He pulls it out, and it’s a neatly folded tartan nightshirt. A smile that hasn’t been seen in half a century warms his face.

Yes, the dream has left him. But it's coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd already drawn most of the accompanying sketch before I had the idea for writing this, but they still go quite nicely together. That's the reason for the lack of tartan nightshirt 😉


End file.
